Wednesday, August 8, 2012

What does author Jake Watterson need with a secretary?Nothing, that’s what!Until he meets Betty Ann….

EXCERPT:

Betty Ann faced the
secretary pool’s main desk. She wore her best flower-print dress—her only
store-bought one. “Please, Miss Johnson, I’ll work really hard. I won’t lose my
next job, I promise! It really wasn’t my fault I lost the first one. You’ve got
to believe me.”

She had brushed her hair till it curled neatly
around her shoulders, but her face felt pinched and small, ready to dissolve
into tears any minute now. She dearly hoped she wouldn’t. She knew her boss
thought her far too young already.

In the background, the
sound of typewriters clacking echoed from the back room. Nearby, a radio
played, and the swinging sounds of big band music floated out. A telephone
rang, and someone answered it. It was another busy day for the Jefferson
Secretarial Agency, another busy day in 1957—for everyone but Betty Ann.

Miss Johnson, an
elderly woman with her glasses attached to a beaded string, sat behind a big
oak desk and answered Betty patiently. “I’m sorry, Miss Keene, but whether it
was your fault or not, most of our secretarial jobs require the ability to
type—and type well. I don’t know how you graduated secretarial school without
that skill, but apparently you did.”

Miss Johnson adjusted
her glasses and peered over them. “I don’t think I have to remind you,” she
drawled, “that you don’t need to come in every day and ask for work. You were
informed the agency would contact you as soon as we received a job offer for you.”

“I-I know,” faltered
Betty Ann. Her voice shook. “But—” I’m not going to cry, but I’ve
got to find a job! I can’t go home yet; I just can’t.

“It’s hard to be
patient, I know.” Miss Johnson’s voice continued, not without sympathy. “It’s
never easy waiting for a job, but maybe you shouldn’t. Take my advice, Miss
Keene—go home. It’s going to be a long wait if you stay here.

“You’ve got good
qualities: you’re cheerful, pretty, and apparently you know everything there is
to know about peach farming. It shouldn’t be hard for you to find a husband.
Why don’t you go back to the country and marry a nice farm boy, because here in
the city, we don’t need— Excuse me.”

The phone rang. She
broke off talking to Betty and answered it. She listened for a moment. A look
of awe slowly overtook her tired features.

“Yes. Yes, Mr.
Armstrong. Cheerful, you say?” Her eyes flicked up to Betty with growing
wonder. “I think I have just the girl.” She wrote an address down and nodded.
“I’ll send her right over. Thank you for using Jefferson Secretarial Agency.”

She hung up and looked
at Betty Ann with a dazed, amazed expression.

“Well, Betty, it looks
like you have a job after all. Mr. Anderson is a publisher who wants to cheer
up one of his authors. Apparently the man hates winter. Mr. Anderson wants to
find him a cheerful secretary.”

Miss Johnson gave her
the address, questioned her to be sure she would know how to find it,
instructed her not to be late, and with a perplexed frown growing on her face,
watched Betty leave.

Betty left her coat in
the agency cloakroom. It was ugly and worn and certainly wouldn’t make the best
impression at her new job. She hurried to the address Miss Johnson had given
her, checking the street signs, and following Miss Johnson’s instructions
carefully.

On the walk, she
sniffed the air, smelled the heavenly aroma of fresh baked bread. Maybe she
could risk spending nearly the last of her money. She hadn’t eaten yet today,
and she’d need some energy for her new job.

Her new job! Yes! She
clasped her hands together and grinned up at the clear blue sky.

She stopped at a bread
store, bought a day-old roll, and crunched it on the way.

Everything was going to be all right, she realized, walking with
a little skip in her step, smiling up at the watercolor-blue sky.

The wind was brisk, and
she shivered. But it was only a short walk to the address, and she moved
quickly.

She spotted trees in
the city park, their tall, empty branches making dark lines against the sky.
Remembering something from her life on the farm, she headed over to them,
beginning to hum happily.

* * * *

Jake Watterson shuffled
out of his bathroom, bleary-eyed and scowling, one hand wrapped around a mug of
orange juice, the other scratching his chin stubble. He picked up the heavy
receiver on what must have been its twentieth ring and snarled, “Yes?”

“Jake, that you? Sounds
like I woke you,” said his editor with unwholesome cheerfulness in his voice.

And you sound really apologetic about it. “Well you didn’t. What do
you want? I’m eating.”

“Hire a cook again?
Good for you. Listen, I just called to ask how your new book was com—”

With a wordless growl,
Jake slammed the receiver down.

Within moments, the
phone rang again. Jake ignored it for another twenty rings, by which time he
had finished his orange juice and was starting to feel more human. He picked
up.

“What do you want,
Matt?” he asked.

“I want you to start
working,” said editor Matthew Armstrong. “And I have an idea that might help.”

“What?”

“Listen, don’t get mad.
I’m having a secretary sent over to help you.”

“Matt—” Jake ground his
teeth.

“Hey, don’t interrupt.
Let me fin—”

“You know I don’t like
giving dictation.”

“—ish. I know you say
you don’t like doing dictation—don’t interrupt—but I also know that for the
past three years you haven’t done a lick of work in the winter months. Why, you
haven’t typed a single word since October!”